


Mantrap

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gay Bar, Love at First Sight, M/M, Seriously Fluffy, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9649997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A young Sherlock Holmes walks into a gay bar and meets a young John Watson about to leave for the army.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest so far of these tales. And pretty much the fluffiest. Not sure if those two facts are connected. Anyway, sometimes only fluff will do…
> 
> And guess what! Two of the 26 postcards I sent fro London weeks ago have just arrived. Number 3 and number 4.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this. I love hearing from you!

All right. Clearly, this was a very bad idea. Even a genius was entitled to have one of those occasionally and while Sherlock Holmes had fewer of them than any other random genius one could name, this was most definitely a Not Good idea.

Sherlock paused on the pavement, catching sight of his reflection in the window of a closed Paul’s Patisserie. The forest green shirt was nicely snug, the denim trousers perfectly tailored, although he was still unsure about the short leather jacket. He ran one hand through his persistently unruly curls to disarray them even more. The smile he tested was slightly disturbing even to him.

He walked a few more steps and then, without giving himself a chance to think about it, Sherlock pulled open the door of The Mantrap and went in.

Even from the foyer he could tell that the music was too loud and rather dreadful. He was tempted to turn around and flee immediately. 

But then he thought again about Mycroft’s sneer when the subject of Sherlock’s…well, experiences [or, more accurately, his lack of any such thing] arose. Not to mention the snickers of the others in his residence hall back in Cambridge. His spine straightened and he forced himself to walk into the crowded main room of the pub.

It was the worst single experience of his life.

The noise. The smells of sweat and cheap booze and something else he could not quite identify, but which both repelled and attracted him in ways he did not especially like.

Finally he managed to reach the bar and ordered a shot of whisky, not because he was especially fond of it, but because it was what Mycroft and Father always drank and so it came to mind. Carrying the glass with two fingers, he shoved his way across the dance floor, trying not to touch any of the writhing bodies. A few hands landed on his arse, accidentally he hoped, but finally he reached the far corner where an empty table had been shoved out of the way for the dancing and sat down.

Now that he was here, Sherlock admitted to himself that he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Someone insinuated himself into the other chair. “Well, you’re new here, honeybuns.”

Sherlock turned to look at the man. Mid-twenties, dressed in a tight t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and with what looked like a dusting of silver glitter across his eyelids. A quick glance at his hands told Sherlock more. “You work in a bank,” he said. “Your family has expectations that you will rise to a position of power. Sadly, that seems most unlikely. In addition, they have already picked out a suitable wife for you. You come here every Thursday night looking for…well, the usual, I suppose.” He sat back and took a small sip of the clearly watered whisky.

After a moment, the man gave a grimace. “I know what my life is, thank you very much,” he said, sounding remarkably calm under the circumstances. “No need to have it shoved in my face by a snotty public school boy.” Then he leaned a little closer. “Your technique could use some work, sweetie.”

He got up and disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments later, Sherlock saw him dancing with a tall, slender black man who was sporting some rather amazing dreadlocks.

Sherlock wondered if he should just leave now.

Before he could make a decision, however, the chair opposite was occupied again. Sherlock prepared himself to observe and probably offend again.

But when he looked at the newcomer, he paused.

Blond hair cut much too short. A t-shirt that displayed well-developed biceps to their best advantage. And brown eyes that were not fogged by either drugs or alcohol. Sherlock decided to reserve comment on the smile until he had time to study it more.

“You look about as happy to be here as I am,” the man said.

“Then why are you here?” Sherlock asked, logically.

The man smiled again and shrugged. “Oh, just having a last night out before heading for Sandhurst to start officer training. Leaving first thing in the morning. Couple of mates wanted to have a good time first. They dragged me along.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what the man had said. “Officer training? But you’re…a doctor.”

The man blinked, then laughed softly. “I don’t know how you figured that out.”

“I merely observed.”

“Very clever. But, sadly, not quite a doctor yet.”

“A soldier and a doctor…” Sherlock almost paused, not really wanting to offend, but the man had not sounded offended and even called him clever so… “Oh, the money ran out. So the army.”

“That’s part of it, yes. By the way, the name is John Watson,” he said cheerfully, holding out a hand.

After a moment, Sherlock followed suit and they shook. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“What else can you observe about me, Sherlock Holmes?”

For once [for the first time ever] Sherlock restrained himself from blurting out everything. “No doubt more than you would like to hear,” he said instead.

And John Watson laughed again. “No doubt. Well, tell me something else, then.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Anything you like.”

They each took a sip, Sherlock of his whisky, John of his lager.

Sherlock told John all about the life cycle of the honeybee.

Then he told him about the history of fingerprinting for crime solving.

And the reason why the bartender kept scratching behind his left ear.

John listened to everything he said and told him it was all completely amazing.

Finally, they tired of the noisy pub and left, walking all the way to Tower Bridge, while John talked about his hopes for a career as an Army surgeon and his dead parents and alcoholic sister. Sherlock did not tell him that he knew all of that already, partly because he still did not want to offend him, but mostly just because he enjoyed the sound of John’s voice surrounding him. He tucked that realisation away to think about later.

After staring down at the dark Thames for far too long, they walked on and much too soon the edge of dawn appeared in the London sky. By this time, they had reached the military lodging where John and his friends had been quartered.

They stopped on the pavement. Suddenly, Sherlock wanted to ask John not to go, which was ridiculous.

Without warning, John stood on his toes and placed his lips softly against Sherlock’s. It felt very nice. “Take care of yourself, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered.

“Why?” Sherlock asked and then he felt stupid.

“Because I want to see you again. First leave I get.” Then John moved back just a little. “If that is something you would want, I mean,” he said, sounding hesitant for the first time.

“It is. Very much.” Sherlock did not know that he intended to hug John Watson until his arms were already around him. They clung to one another for several long minutes and Sherlock surprised himself again by placing a soft kiss on John’s forehead. It felt like a benediction. Or a promise. “Be careful,” he said, which he hoped was not a stupid thing to say. But, after all, John was off to be a soldier.

“I will,” John said and then he stepped away. With one more smile and a wave, he went into the building.

Sherlock had walked on for five minutes before he realised that there was a piece of paper in his hand. He stopped in the middle of the pavement to look at it.

A name, an address, and, absurdly, the drawing of a crooked heart with the letters JW and SH inside. He didn’t even know when John had written it.

After running a fingertip along the [doctorish] scrawl, he carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his wallet.

As he started walking again, Sherlock was already working on a new room in his fledging mind palace, one devoted to doctor and soldier John Watson. Unlike many of the rooms, which tended to be dimly lit and a bit dusty, this one was light and airy and a pleasant place to linger.

He quickened his steps heading towards the station for his train back to Cambridge. With luck, he could make his first lecture.

Luck. Not something he had ever really believed in. He was not a fan of Fate, either. But on this particular morning, he was almost willing to embrace either. Or both. How else to explain John Watson appearing so unexpectedly in his life?

There was no doubt that Sherlock Holmes had finally had an experience, although he was not quite sure what _kind_ of experience it had been.

But he was a genius; he would figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Mantrap by Sinclair Lewis


End file.
